


Domesticity

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(From a long-lost prompt on the kinkmeme.) Donovan must spend a night at Baker Street, and is surprised at the domesticity and affection between Sherlock and John when they're not on the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domesticity

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [at my LJ](http://hoc-voluerunt.livejournal.com/29286.html) in June 2011. (Note: The explanation of Sherlock's asexuality is deliberately imprecise.)

            The sun had just disappeared over the horizon on Friday evening when someone rang the doorbell for 221B. Sherlock, lounging on the sofa with his hands clasped beneath his chin, didn’t even open his eyes, so John just sighed and put aside his book, shaking his head as he descended the stairs. Their latest case had only ended that morning – a draining series of child abductions – and John had been looking forward to a quiet night in; if this was some client or other for Sherlock, he was half-inclined to turn them down on the front step. John was shocked, then, to open the door to a familiar face.

            “Sergeant Donovan,” he said blankly in lieu of a greeting. “Not to be rude, but – what are you doing here?”

            Donovan grimaced, lifting the overnight bag in her hand in response. “There’s a gas leak at my place,” she explained, “so I need a place to stay for the night. None of my family live anywhere near London, and all my friends are either overseas, busy or don’t have any room.” She smirked. “Trust me, John, you two are my last resort. I even tried Lestrade, but he’s got custody of his kids for the weekend.”

            “What about Anderson?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. Donovan didn’t even flinch.

            “His wife’s home,” she explained. “We haven’t slept together for weeks, but it still wouldn’t look good. And she might murder me in my sleep.”

            “So might Sherlock,” John added lightly.

            “So he might,” said Donovan. “But at least he’s got you to stop him.”

            John smiled at this, standing aside and shutting the door after Donovan. “Sherlock!” he called as he led the way upstairs. “Were you listening?”

            “Yes,” came the answer, flat and slightly muffled. “Are you sure it’s a gas leak and not a certain bomber?” he asked distractedly as John and Donovan entered the flat.

            “Either way, she needs a place to stay,” said John, eliciting a twitch at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. The doctor glanced at his watch and his eyebrows shot up. “It’s later than I thought,” he mumbled, turning toward the kitchen. “I hope you like red chicken curry, Sergeant,” he called over his shoulder, “because it’s what’s for dinner. One of those packet things.”

            “Sounds fine,” Donovan replied, dropping her bag onto the chair by the sofa. “And please, call me Sally,” she added. “I’m off-duty, and I do have a first name.”

            John huffed a small laugh as he cleared a space on the counter. “All right,” he conceded. “Have you got something to do, or d’you want to help cook or…” He trailed off, peering at a discoloured patch of kitchen table before deciding it was harmless and heading for the fridge.

            “Er, I’ve actually got some paperwork needs doing,” said Sally, still standing slightly awkwardly by the doorway.

            “Excellent, don’t need to entertain you then,” said John brightly. “Sherlock, clear a space on the desk for her, will you?” For a moment, the only sound was the humming of the fridge and the crackle of plastic bags. Sally glanced tensely from the kitchen to the sofa where Sherlock was reclining, and John rolled his eyes as he pulled out a cutting board.  _“Sherlock,”_  he repeated sternly. He was met with an explosive sigh and the creaking of leather cushions as the detective swung himself off the sofa and over the coffee table to the desk, rifling through the piles of notes there and pushing aside John’s laptop, all the while muttering unhappily under his breath.

            “Oh shut up, Sherlock,” John tutted. “You said you wanted to put together the file for the last case tonight, and I’ll be needing you in here soon, anyway. You’d have had to get up sometime.”

            Sherlock responded by grabbing a pile of newspapers, photographs and notes from the desk and settling on the floor with them in the middle of the room. As he began his meticulous process of cutting, pasting and annotating, Sally pulled a folder from her bag and picked her way across to the cleared space on the desk to start working. She’d long ago stopped bothering to warn the good doctor against remaining around Sherlock Holmes, but that didn’t stop her wondering why he stayed, especially not when faced with this petulant, lazy, selfish version of the man. She could barely imagine how she was going to survive a single night in the same flat as him, let alone how it must be to endure his presence on a regular and permanent basis.

            Relative silence reigned for a while. No one spoke, but the air was lightly cluttered by the scratch of pens and the rasp of turning papers. Over them called the sounds from the kitchen – pots and pans clattering, knives rapping against chopping boards and the kettle boiling – and through it all was John, shuffling between the counter, the stove and the table. Sally had made it through two reports and a single, excruciating form before someone talked, the sudden vocalisation making her jump just slightly as it broke her reverie.

            “Sherlock, could you come and chop the carrots?” John called from the kitchen.

            “I’m not eating,” said Sherlock, not looking up from his work, “therefore I shouldn’t have to help cook.”

            “You  _are_  eating,” John replied firmly, “and there’s a little something called generosity that you should remember now and then.”

            Sally snorted, wondering whether the freak even knew the  _meaning_  of generosity; but then Sherlock was unfolding himself from the floor and stepping over his half-finished work to join his flatmate in the kitchen. Sally stared after him, long enough to watch as John greeted him by reaching out with one hand and pressing it against Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock responded by brushing the backs of his knuckles over the rolled-up sleeve of John’s shirt, and Sally was suddenly struck with a sense of intrusion – of being audience to something intimate and personal – and she wondered whether the rumours around the Yard were true. A moment later, the two men had parted and turned to their jobs, and the moment of stillness felt like a hallucination.

            “Not on the same board as the chicken,” John was instructing calmly, stirring the contents of the pot before him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Cross-contamination, Sherlock,” John sighed, exasperated. “You’ve got to know  _something_  about that.”

            Expecting another of Sherlock’s usual vindictive remarks – a cutting snipe against John’s own knowledge of anything to do with contamination, or simply a defamation of his intelligence – Sally winced in pre-emptive sympathy for the doctor; but it seemed that she had reacted prematurely. Wordlessly, Sherlock shifted across to the other board, compliantly and surprisingly neatly cutting the carrots as John grabbed a pan and dropped it onto the stove, pouring on some oil and carrying across the board full of pieces of chicken. He continued stirring the pot as the pan heated up, and by the time the chicken was sizzling in the oil, the carrots were finished.

            “Pot?” asked Sherlock simply. John nodded as he pushed the chicken haphazardly about the pan, and Sherlock let the carrots tumble into the large pot before taking over command of the wooden spoon, carefully stirring the mixture of vegetables and sachet curry mix.

            “D’you think you –” John started, glancing up momentarily from the pan. He interrupted himself with a fond half-smile at the look of intense concentration on Sherlock’s face, as if he was absolutely determined to get the meal right. John turned to Sally, leaning back to talk around Sherlock. “Sally, d’you think you could clear a spot on the table for us?” he called. She shot a pointed look at the dubiously-safe clutter on the table, and John followed her gaze. “Oh, right.”

            “She’s been to drugs busts, she knows what to expect,” said Sherlock flatly. “Come and help, Sergeant.”

            “And could you heat up the leftover rice in the fridge?” John asked as she put down her pen and crossed the room, carefully picking her way through Sherlock’s mess.

            “Will I find another jar of eyes in the microwave?” she asked as she made her way to the fridge.

            “Yes,” said Sherlock spitefully. John glared at him, and he rolled his eyes.  _“No,”_   he amended with a sigh, and muttered something about ‘spoiling the burden’.

            The smell of curry and frying chicken was beginning to fill the flat, and Sally sniffed happily at the mouth-watering scent even as she gingerly plucked Petri dishes and retort stands from the table and removed them to any other free surface. She was turning back to the table after moving a particularly stained sheaf of papers when she saw it.

            John had moved to pour the chicken into the pot, bumping at Sherlock with his hip. The two men were pressed against each other, and as John carefully scraped the lumps of chicken from the pan, Sherlock’s arm whipped out to grasp around the shorter man’s shoulders, squeezing slightly. As he put aside the pan once more, John turned his head and smiled, leaning up to place a kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

            An instant later, the doctor had stepped away, dropping the pan into the sink. The only hint that anything had happened between the two men was the careful smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth against which John’s lips had pressed, and Sally found herself wondering if she’d imagined it – then changing her mind and wondering how she’d missed this in the months of working with the infuriating consulting detective and his tagalong doctor. The hiss of running water joined the comfortable cacophony in the kitchen as John began to clean up, Sherlock interrupting his stirring of the pot to pass him the chopping boards and knives.

            The microwave beeped harshly, shocking Sally out of her observations. She turned away, the kitchen fell back into relative order and, a few minutes later, dinner was served. Sherlock took a moment out of helping set the table to pull John’s hand away from the handle of the pot and wrap a towel around it, informing him that it was hot.

            Sherlock and Sally pulled in their chairs at either end of the table, John seated slightly toward Sherlock’s end on one side. Sherlock served himself only a few bites of chicken and absolutely no vegetables, accompanied by a tiny lump of rice. John pursed his lips in annoyance, but said nothing as he piled food onto his own plate and handed the serving spoon to Sally. The meal began in silence, Sherlock’s plate emptying in a few fleeting moments, and though John made the occasional attempt at small talk, he had stopped by the time Sherlock began spearing pieces of broccoli from his plate. When she was halfway through her own serving, Sally decided to speak.

            “So,” she said, determined not to sound awkward, “I didn’t know you two were shagging.”

            To her surprise, John let out a snort of laughter. “I wish,” he mumbled through his food. Sally frowned.

            “I’m asexual,” Sherlock said condescendingly between mouthfuls of John’s dinner.

            “He doesn’t like sex,” John explained at the confused look on Sally’s face. “Or doesn’t  _want_ it, really. But in any case, he won’t give it.”

            “But you  _are…”_  said Sally carefully.

            “Together?” John offered brightly. “Yeah, we are.”

             _“Brilliant_ observation, Sergeant,” Sherlock offered scathingly, ignoring John’s answering scowl of reproach.

            Sally’s mouth tightened, but she said nothing, keeping her attention on Doctor Watson. “How long?” she asked, still wondering how she’d missed this.

            “Oh, about…” John started uncertainly. “Few months now? Sherlock?”

            “Three months, eight days and twenty-two hours,” the detective supplied without hesitation. Sally raised her eyebrows at the accuracy, but John just smiled.

            “Well that’s certainly an improvement,” he said happily, turning to Sally. “At least he’s not counting it to the minute any more. Maybe one day I’ll have you measuring it in nothing smaller than months,” he added to Sherlock.

            The detective said nothing, just blinked at John, blank-faced. Sally couldn’t believe that John – ordinary, warm, comfortable John – could somehow  _love_ a man who was so obviously unemotional. And yet… the more Sally looked, the more she saw that there was something in the tilt of Sherlock’s head and the odd relaxation around his eyes that struck her as inexplicably fond.

            “So John,” she asked, if only to break the tension, “are you allowed to go out and find other people for sex? Or does he not let you out of the house without him?”

            John laughed again, in that almost-rueful way that expressed just how perplexed he was at his own actions – and how completely he accepted them. “Sherlock’s kind of possessive,” he said slowly. “Though you’ve probably noticed that by now. But now and then I get out for a one-night stand. Honestly, though, it’s no more than I’d be getting even if we  _weren’t_  together, not with our working hours.”

            “Any luck with these… trysts?” said Sally playfully.

            “Actually, I’ve been told I’m a pretty good shag,” John replied, completely straight-faced. “Along with being a complete charmer. So I’m pretty much guaranteed a place in someone’s bed.” Sherlock glared at his empty plate as if it had done him some personal injustice. “Not that I stay the night,” John continued. “But I’ve been told more than once that I’m wasted on Sherlock.”

            At this, Sherlock’s head jerked up and he stared at the doctor with all the intensity he could muster. There was an odd combination of indignity, offence and, strangely enough,  _fear,_ trapped behind the tense line of his mouth. Sally had never seen anything resembling this amount of emotion on Sherlock’s face before, and she was quite certain that it was probably the most she’d  _ever_  see.

            John, reading the expression perfectly, rolled his eyes and smiled, reaching out to squeeze Sherlock’s hand. “Not that I believe them,” he said, and Sherlock relaxed minutely.

            They all returned to their food then (or rather, Sally turned to her food, and both John and Sherlock focused back on the doctor’s plate), and barely a word was exchanged until the dirty dishes had been stacked in the sink. John settled down across the desk from Sally with his laptop, evidently typing up another case for his blog, and Sherlock dropped back down to the floor with his cuttings and notes. Once again, relative silence fell, marred only by turning pages and the steady  _click-click-click_  of John’s typing.

            Eventually, Sally finished with her work and glanced at her watch, surprised to find that it was already ten-thirty. She shuffled her papers for a moment, double-checking a few things before she finally closed her folder and clicked her pen shut.

            “So,” she said quietly, pulling John out of his reverie. “Am I taking the sofa, or...”

            “No, no,” said John, “you can have my room. There’s not much in there – just a few winter coats and some old junk of mine. But since I’ll be sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, there’s no need for you to be uncomfortable.”

            “Oh –” Sally managed to bite out, finding herself weirdly shocked by the thought not only of the freak actually  _sleeping,_ but by his having a  _partner,_ as well. “Thanks.”

            John showed her up, carrying her bag for her (which Sally thought was stupidly old-fashioned and chivalrous of him, but she wasn’t complaining). He pointed out the upstairs bathroom, apologised for the thin layer of dust on the meticulously-made bed and gave her strict orders not to open the shoebox at the bottom of the wardrobe, then left her to her own devices, closing the door behind him as he headed back downstairs.

            After he’d left, the room seemed empty and quiet. Sally was just digging out her iPod to drown out the silence when she realised that she’d left her pen downstairs. Dropping her things on the bed, she crept to the door.

 

            As John came back into the living room, Sherlock was packing away his work. The manila folder was slid into a box, and scraps of paper and scribbled-out notes were shoved aside under the coffee table for later consideration. The detective stood in one, smooth movement and approached John, gathering him up in a long-limbed hug, eyes shut and nose buried in the doctor’s short, mousy hair.

            “John,” he breathed, his voice oddly reverent, as the smaller man wound his own arms around Sherlock’s waist and smiled.

            “Contrary to popular belief,” said John, addressing Sherlock’s shoulder, “my name doesn’t count as your evening prayers.”

            Sherlock snorted cynically, his breath causing a patch of John’s hair to puff up. “If, by some stroke of improbability, some deity is listening,” he said, “I’m sure they’ll accept your name as sufficient penitence for my sins.”

            “Somehow, I doubt that.”

            The two stood for a little while longer, holding each other in the middle of the sitting room. Eventually, Sherlock suggested they retire to bed, and John replied with a half-stifled yawn. They wandered off through the kitchen and disappeared into Sherlock’s room.

 

            Not close enough to see them, but not far enough away to have missed their words, Sally stood frozen on the stairs.

            No one had ever said anything as heartfelt as that to  _her._

 

            Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling as he brushed his teeth, wondering how much Sally had heard and determining that it was most of the conversation. He found himself feeling oddly vindicated. When he joined John in their bed two point three minutes later, he was sure to wrap as much of himself around his doctor as he could, burying his face against John’s still-slightly-tanned shoulder in lieu of simply crawling inside him and revelling in the all-encompassing pounding of his stubborn little heart.

 

            When John shuffled out of the bedroom the next morning, track pants and t-shirt heavily rumpled, Sally was already up, carefully navigating the kettle and cupboards in search of a cup of tea. She glanced over as John yawned and stepped into the kitchen.

            “Sorry I didn’t ask,” she said quietly. “But I was dying for a cuppa, and I didn’t really want to wake either of you.”

            John waved her apology away. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, voice still a bit hoarse from sleep, opening the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk. He stared critically at it for a moment, weighing it and sniffing at the opening before apparently deeming it safe to use and setting it on the table, turning to the cupboards in search of Weetabix. When he caught sight of the dirty dishes still languishing in the sink, he groaned wearily, and Sally chuckled.

            “I can give you a hand with that, if you want,” she said, but John shook his head.

            “No, I’m trying to house-train Sherlock,” he said nonchalantly. “I’ve got him helping with the cooking, and we’ve even got a system going where he  _dries._  The minute the balance of work is messed up, he’ll go right back to doing nothing again. That’s almost six months of work ruined.”

            Sally stared at him, putting together his breakfast, trying to figure out whether or not he was being serious. She still hadn’t come to a decision by the time her tea was ready and John was dropping his bowl in the sink, at which point Sherlock wandered out of the bedroom, eyes half-open and pyjamas hanging from his thin frame. He didn’t even glance at Sally, but made a beeline for John, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s shoulders. John barely reacted except to smile slightly and pick up the detergent as Sherlock started nuzzling about his ear, humming slightly. As the sink began filling with suds and hot water, John glanced over at the bewildered-looking Sally, standing, nonplussed, by the fridge with her tea in her hands.

            “Don’t worry about him,” said the doctor as Sherlock started kissing languidly at his jaw. “He gets like this sometimes in the morning.”

            “I’ve seen him in the mornings, you know,” said Sally, dumbfounded. “On cases.”

            “Exactly,” said John, dumping plates on the draining board – “on cases. Not at home.”

            “So you have to put up with –  _this,”_  Sally made a broad, encompassing gesture at Sherlock – “every morning?”

            “Not  _every_  morning, no,” said John easily. “But... well, sometimes. After he’s slept well. Which is less often than he should.” He threw an admonishing glance over his shoulder, but Sherlock, eyes closed and lips pressed against the base of John’s neck, was heedless of his ire. “He’s probably also got an entire separate reason this  _particular_ morning,” John continued, “that has to do with your presence and a misplaced sense of possession.” Sherlock somehow managed to glare at John without opening his eyes, but the doctor only smirked in return.

            As Sally finished her tea and the pile of clean, dripping dishes on the draining board grew, Sherlock remained draped over John’s shoulders, occasionally nuzzling at him but doing very little besides. Sally leaned against the fridge, outside of the scene, looking on with a kind of morbid fascination. On the one hand, it felt almost intrusive to be watching such a display of intimacy; but on the other hand, neither man had voiced any objections to her presence. It was as if they were caught in their own little world, heedless of the sergeant just a few metres away. Seeing Sherlock like this – pliant, calm, happy, even  _loving_  – was like seeing Halley’s Comet: rare, even unheard-of, and somewhat shocking. Sally was certain that none of her colleagues at the Yard would believe her if she told them what she’d seen.

            “You done with the tea?” John asked calmly, ignoring the way Sherlock’s thumbs were currently stroking against his collarbone and jolting Sally out of her thoughts. She quickly downed the final few gulps of her drink and held out the mug, placing it in John’s soapy, outstretched hand. He perfunctorily scrubbed at the mug and balanced it among the pile beside the sink before pulling out the plug and snatching a dishtowel from the bench to dry his hands. He turned around in Sherlock’s grip and held out the towel, all business. The detective rolled his eyes, but acquiesced, his arms retreating from around John’s shoulders to reluctantly accept the chore. As he worked, John put the clean dishes away, keeping up a polite conversation with Sally.

            “So you’ll be going home today?” he asked.

            “Yep,” said Sally. “I’ll pick up my things after work and be out of your hair as soon as I can.”

            “If it were ‘as soon as you can’,”Sherlock interrupted sourly, “you’d be taking your bag with you to work so you don’t have to come back. I can  _feel_  John’s observational skills devolving with every minute you darken our rooms.”

            John elbowed him in the ribs. “Ignore him,” he said to Sally. “It makes sense for you not to burden yourself at work.”

            “Exactly,” said Sally. “I won’t be staying another night, don’t worry. Now, I need to have a shower.” She darted out into the hall, closing the door behind her. Before mounting the stairs, she paused for a moment outside the kitchen, listening to the two men’s low voices murmuring faintly on the other side of the wall.

 

            When Sally next decided to venture back downstairs, she was showered and fully-dressed, and Sherlock and John were sharing the sofa. Sherlock was biting into a slice of toast, scrolling through his phone with one hand, his feet resting in John’s lap, while the doctor leant back into the cushions, his attention on a newspaper and the fingers of one hand playing idly with the hem of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers. Sally was about to speak when Sherlock’s phone beeped, cutting her off as if on cue. The detective let out a little “Ha!” of triumph at the same moment that Sally’s own phone began to ring. She stepped out of the room to pick it up.

            “Donovan,” she said, trying not to listen too intently to Sherlock and John’s mutterings from the sitting room.

            “There’s been a murder,” came Lestrade’s voice. “I tried your home phone, but there was no answer, so I guess it’s still a bit quarantined?”

            “I should be back home tonight,” said Sally, with only a hint of defensiveness.

            “Where are you staying?” Lestrade asked. “I hope you didn’t end up having to pay for a hotel.”

            “No, actually, I’ve found a place,” said Sally, smirking to herself. “I’m staying with the freak and his pet.”

             _“I’m not his pet!”_ John shouted from the living room. Sally’s smirk widened.

            “Great, you can get a cab with them,” said Lestrade. “Sherlock has the address. I’ll fill you both in when you get here.”

            Sally managed not to act on her indignation at being left in the dark in favour of the freak, and instead turned away from the sitting room, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Sir?” she added. “Speaking of Sherlock and John – did you know that they’re, um...”

            “Together?” Lestrade finished for her, the triumphant mirth evident in his voice.

            “You  _knew?”_  said Sally incredulously.

            Lestrade made a humming sound, the kind that would have accompanied a shrug. “I suspected,” he said easily. “Well, let’s be honest – I was  _hoping_  they’d finally see sense. So they  _are_  together now?”

            “Yeah, actually, they are,” Sally replied. “It’s  _weird.”_

            “And how’s it going?” said Lestrade, pitching his voice a bit softer. “I hope Sherlock’s treating the doctor right, you know – not being too harsh on him, is he?”

            “No,” said Sally, sounding surprised even to herself. “Actually, they’re... kind of sweet. In a completely creepy way.”

            “‘Sweet’ isn’t exactly a word I’d use to describe Sherlock Holmes,” said Lestrade dryly. “You sure you’re not imagining it?”

            “Pretty sure,” Sally chuckled.

 

            An hour later, Sally was absolutely certain she’d hallucinated the entire thing. Sherlock was darting about the body spouting information and rude comments while John stood, mostly-forgotten, at the edge of the crime scene. When Sherlock had given Lestrade a final list of his findings, he and the doctor sped off, disappearing down the street in search of a cab. Sally could easily see how they’d kept their relationship to themselves all this time – there was nothing at all that was affectionate or even particularly  _close_  about the pair. They seemed to prefer to keep their own space when working or in public, never sharing anything more than glances and words.

            And yet...

            Just as the two men turned away from the scene, Sally thought she caught a glimpse of a conspiratorial grin passing between them. She’d seen it a few times before, always when the pair knew something that the rest of them had failed to notice. It had always seemed perfectly innocent enough, but in the light of her discovery, Sally found herself re-evaluating the look. It wasn’t just playful and excited – it was a something that the two men shared, something apart from everything and everyone else. It was trust and respect and happiness, and perhaps a hint of affection, all accumulated into a single glance and the quirking of two mouths. There wasn’t anything particularly  _loving_  about it – and yet it was a look that conveyed love in the most concentrated form, more so than in any more conventional romance that Sally had seen, fiction or reality.

            “My wife used to look at me like that,” came Lestrade’s voice. He stepped up beside Sally, staring after Sherlock and John’s retreating backs. She glanced over at him. “This was years ago, before the kids and the promotion and the divorce...” Lestrade continued with a shrug. “But I think they’ll be a bit better off than me.”

            “You think they’ll last?” Sally asked.

            “Oh yeah,” said Lestrade thoughtfully, “they’ll last. That’s what they do, isn’t it? They survived that Moriarty madman, didn’t they? They’ll get through anything.”

 

            The day was long, full of phone calls and questions and running after information in grossly huge databases, and by the time Sally finally got out of the office, it was well past midnight. Resigned to spending another night with the freak, despite her promise, she caught a cab to Baker Street and rang the bell for 221B a few times. There was no answer. After a moment of deliberation, Sally decided to instead press the button for 221A, and a minute later the door was opened by Sherlock and John’s kind old landlady, dressing-gown-clad and slightly bemused from sleep, apologising for her tenants and letting her in with a smile and a pat on the arm.

            “They’re probably still out, you know,” she said fondly. “I heard them a few hours ago, talking about some case – they’ve done this before dear, you’ll have to excuse them.”

            Sally nodded her thanks and mounted the stairs, wondering if she’d be able to find anything suitable to eat before bed. She went straight through into the kitchen and found a note waiting for her on the table, written in a hurried scrawl.

 

             _3pm. Sally – I hear the investigation’s going pretty tough, so in case you end up having to spend another night here, there’s leftover Thai in the fridge. Ignore the bottom shelf and don’t shift any of the beakers. Don’t worry if we’re not back by morning. - John_

 

            Below, in a neat, angular script Sally recognised as Sherlock’s, were two additions.

 

             _Don’t touch my microscope either._

 

_12:47am._ _It was Ronald Patterson, victim’s father-in-law. Only meant to threaten, but things got out of hand when the victim pulled out a knife. He can probably be found at whatever pub is nearest to his house, he’ll be drinking away his fear of discovery until he’s unconscious. Forward this information to Lestrade._

 

            Sally held in her frustrated scoff and pulled out her phone to text Lestrade, annoyed at having to be Sherlock Bloody Holmes’ messenger. After she’d hit ‘Send’, she crossed to the fridge and carefully navigated the experiments before finding a plastic container of sweet and sour pork. She heated it up quickly and ate even quicker, ravenous after such a long day. For a moment, she contemplated leaving out the dirty dishes as an act of petty revenge against Sherlock, then decided that it would just be mean to John and washed up anyway. On her way to the stairs, Sally glanced through the door to the living room and stopped in her tracks.

            Sherlock and John were fast asleep on the sofa. They lay chest-to-chest among the cushions and a single blanket, Sherlock on top of the doctor, his nose pressed into the nook between John’s neck and shoulder. Their arms were wrapped protectively around each other, and one of John’s legs had slipped from the cushions, his bare foot resting on the floor and his other knee poking up out of the blanket between the detective and the back of the sofa. Sherlock’s long legs extended out over one armrest, and as Sally watched, he murmured something unintelligible and wriggled slightly, seeming intent upon burrowing deeper into John’s chest.

            Unable to help herself, Sally quickly pulled her phone out again and snapped a few photos of the pair on the sofa. Then, stifling a giggle, she climbed the stairs as quietly as she could and went straight to bed. She was asleep within minutes.

 

 

            Sally was woken far too early in the morning by her phone ringing by her bedside, and fumbled to answer it.

            “Mmm-what?” she groaned.

            “Did I wake you, Donovan?” came Lestrade’s voice, faintly mocking.

            Sally groaned again. “What time is it?” she rasped, voice sleep-weary and cracking.

            “Nine o’clock.”

            “Why are you calling?” Sally asked, trying to sound professional but managing only to sound like a whiny teenager woken too early on a Sunday.

            “To tell you that you were meant to be at work half an hour ago,” Lestrade answered, amused. “I know how late you worked last night, and I got your text about what Sherlock found, but we’ve still got plenty of work to do.”

            Sally let her face fall forward into the pillow in horror. She managed to mumble an apology into the phone before hanging up, groaning and forcing herself out of the comfort of the blankets, mentally kicking herself for missing her alarm.

            A few minutes later, hastily showered and yawning hugely, she padded downstairs to the kitchen. She was rather surprised, somewhere in the back of her sleep-slowed mind, that the freak hadn’t woken her up through some selfishness or other. She tried to figure out just why this was as she rifled cautiously through the cupboards, but quickly decided that it was easier to just accept things as they happened rather than try to fathom the motives of the world’s only consulting detective. Eventually, she pulled down a mug and a tin of coffee and, as she waited for the kettle to boil, darted upstairs to change. She stepped back into the kitchen just as the kettle clicked off, congratulating herself on her timing and rummaging around for a spoon and some bread.

            Sally downed the coffee as quickly as possible and shoved a slice of buttered toast in her mouth as she dashed upstairs to grab her jacket and bag. It was only as she half-hopped back down the stairs, slipping on her shoes, that she realised how  _quiet_  the flat was. She normally lived by herself, so it was natural that she wouldn’t have noticed – but sharing a flat with Sherlock and John, she’d have expected at least a bit more commotion. She’d heard the horror stories about Sherlock’s sleeping habits, and was surprised he was still asleep; unless both he and John had already gone out on another case.

            Popping the last bite of toast in her mouth and slinging her bag over her shoulder, Sally peeked into the living room, hoping to find some clue as to the whereabouts of her reluctant, temporary flatmates. She was well-rewarded.

            The detective and the doctor were still on the sofa, Sherlock curled over John, ensconced in each other’s arms and the blanket; but only John was still asleep. Half-beside him and half-on top of him, Sherlock was laying and staring – at the doctor’s closed eyes, his barely-parted lips, the slow rise and fall of his chest. Sally thought for a moment that he was  _observing_  – deducing and studying and opening up the doctor for his inspection – but she realised that his body and his gaze lacked the intense focus and taut energy that he normally possessed when he worked. It looked, to her, as if he was simply  _watching –_  drinking in the sight of John, asleep and relaxed beside him.

            As Sally watched, Sherlock’s head lifted and turned to face her down the length of the sofa and the two men’s bodies. He glared at her, accusatory, as if she’d interrupted something of the utmost importance, and raised one finger to his lips before returning his gaze to John, clearly implying that there would be dire consequences if she woke the doctor prematurely.

            Sally couldn’t help but find it a little creepy, the way the freak was  _watching John sleep_  – but then Sherlock let out a small, contented-sounding exhale, bordering on a sigh, and his eyes slipped closed. He nudged once at John’s chin with his nose and seemed to melt, relaxing even more fully into the cushions and the body of the doctor.

            Glancing once at her watch, Sally turned away and rushed down the stairs and out of the building, hurrying to the main road to hail a cab. All the way to work, she couldn’t shake the memory of the absolute fondness that had coloured Sherlock’s gaze as he looked at John, and the way he’d relaxed in his sleep-heavy arms.

            She wondered what it must feel like to be so comforted by a single person; then she wondered what kind of unjust gods had given that gift to _Sherlock Holmes_ , of all people.The lucky git.


End file.
